Chained
by anzafire
Summary: Will watches a documentary about people who suffer with OCD. His new understanding of the disorder has him wanting to do everything in his power to help Emma. The only problem is, she doesn't seem to want his help. Will/Emma, angst


If I could read your mind, love, what a tale your thoughts would tell. Just like a paperback novel, the kind that drugstores sell. When you reached the part when the heartaches come, the hero would be me...but heroes often fail. You won't read that book again, because the ending's just too hard to take. - Johnny Cash, If You Could Read My Mind

* * *

You loved Halloween when you were younger.

There was something magical about fall as an elementary school student, when all of Ohio was splashed in hues of reds and yellows. You would hold your father's hand tightly as the two of you made your way down Main Street, he in a flannel jacket and an Indians cap, while you sported a store-bought superhero costume (your mom wasn't much of a seamstress). You would hold the black handle of the reflective orange pumpkin basket, remembering to say 'thank you,' after each house where a candy was deposited into the plastic. You liked being able to walk the streets at night, feeling secure with your dad by your side as you'd finally trudge up the path to your driveway, usually worn from the chilly night air and the miles you'd trekked.

Your father would inspect your candy, making sure nothing looked like it had been previously opened to be tampered with. After giving you the 'all clear' with a thumbs up, you were allowed four pieces before a warm bath, followed a cup of apple cider, while your mother would sip at her own, only her's usually contained a different ingredient that would often lead to she and your father yelling at one another for hours.

But before that could happen, she'd pull your little frame into her lap before the ten o'clock news, kissing your cheek and reminding you how much she loved you, and telling you to have a nice sleep. Your dad pulled back the blankets on your space-themed bed, and ruffled your curls, bidding you pleasant dreams.

In middle school, you went to your first Halloween party. Andrew Jenkin's mother had prepared the basement with decor, but no one showed up in cheesy costumes. You were all too cool for that. Rather, the group of fourteen or so twelve-year-olds played spin the bottle, and you'd kissed Krissy Mace in a closet beneath the stairs. It was thrilling and you felt so cool in that moment, but by the end of the night, she'd also kissed Pete Shuboy and James Ervin, so it hardly made a difference. Nonetheless, you had fun, and when your dad picked you up the following morning, you told him it was the best Halloween you'd ever had.

High School was another story. The first two years, you were stuck in the shadow of Bryan Ryan, who was not only more popular than you, but at the time, he was more talented. It was a difficult period where all you wanted to do was make a name for yourself.

Freshman year, you were invited to a Glee Club celebration of the holiday, and all you wanted to do was have April Rhodes in your arms at the end of the night.

Instead, you showed up, dressed as a soccer player, completely unoriginal since you already were one, only to find that no one else had on costumes — Bryan had specifically told you that everyone would be in character — and you left five minutes later, without even seeing April, completely embarrassed and ready to hide in the corner of the choir room until Bryan graduated.

Your popularity took a soar after he did. You arrived at the house of one of the most wealthy kids at school with Terri DelMonaco at a Halloween party your junior year. She was wearing fishnets and some form of lingerie, whatever she was supposed to be, you didn't care. She looked hot and you had your arm around her. The two of you spilled into the back seat of the Blue Bomber shortly after midnight, and her fishnets had been stripped off in minutes.

You don't really remember October thirty-first from your college years, but that's probably because you had been too drunk or stoned or some sort of combination therein, indicating you had a really great time. You just barely recall waking up in the basement of a frat house in a recliner with Terri wearing absolutely nothing and smirking to yourself before pulling a blanket over your bodies.

After your higher education, however, Halloween became a routine of watching Terri's crazy sister attempt to dress her little monsters into little monsters, then snap a few pictures of them before you were forced to take them out with Phil while your wife and sister-in-law would sit comfortably around a fire on the Guardi's front porch, sipping wine coolers.

Last year, you'd been looking forward to this Halloween. You had anticipated Terri splurging on some fancy ruffles and fabrics to sew a little pink princess costume for your little princess. You'd been hoping to be sitting around your own fire, at your new home, watching as munchkins from all over your new neighborhood approached you and your wife and begged for candy.

However, as this halloween has made it's way around, you flick off the front porch light, not in any sort of mood for a parade of ungrateful urchins from down the road. You flop onto the couch, resting a cold beer between the cushions and puling a steaming bowl of popcorn into your lap as you aimlessly flip through channels, trying to find a movie that didn't involve a formerly happy couple torn apart by creepy or unnatural circumstances.

You can't handle the gory stuff. You don't need to see blood spurting from orifices or institutionalized individuals tearing apart towns. You settle for _It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown_, and find a smirk tugging at your cheeks whenever you hear, "I got a rock," because lately, you're feeling an awful lot like the beagle-owning main character. Life has been throwing a lot of rocks at you lately, and they're not pebbles. They're boulders.

The Schultz special ends and _Law and Order _quickly follows. You find it ironic, that most of the nightmares they portray on the show don't just fit all Hallow's Eve. It's every day life.

Having seen reruns the episode more times than you can count, you flip aimlessly again. Your cable gives brief summaries after the title of each program, but watching something about nocturnal creatures doesn't exactly tickle your fancy. You would watch MTV so you could relate better to your students, but you simply can't handle the moral debauchery.

Finally, something on a channel you don't typically watch captures your attention. It's barely a minute into the compilation of clips that introduce the episode, but you already find yourself hooked — and horrified.

Second long scenes of people viciously scrubbing at their hands, displaying their raw skin, aligning bottles, pens, shoes, and papers, tapping walls and light switches, twisting hair, picking skin and counting, counting, counting flood your screen.

The narrator drawls on about how people live their lives, trapped by a mental illness, and that this program will detail the causes and intense lifestyles of them. As you watch a young woman pump hand sanitizer onto her hands, ringing them together nervously, you feel sick to your stomach.

You are unable to avert your eyes as you watch someone tirelessly rubbing their arms with a sponge under what must be boiling water, their skin a blistering red. You feel a sympathetic burning on your own body, but ignore it as the scene changes to a man counting the number of times he opens and shuts the blinds, then again, as a teenager stocks a pantry by type of food, height, color and shape, pulling her hair when something simply doesn't fit.

A man sneezes from a hundred feet away, and a woman rushes to a sink to decontaminate up to her elbows with soap, spraying a veil of Lysol in the air when she finishes.

On a commercial break, you run a hand through your curls, suddenly choking a sob you didn't know was coming.

The rest of the show plays out in front of you, people confessing they hate the way they are — they hate themselves. That they wish they could change. That they feel helpless, out of control in their own bodies.

By the time the credits roll and a haunting voiceover from a young male, discussing how maybe someday, his life will be his own, lingers in your mind.

You shed a few additional tears before mopping your face and reaching for your cellphone on the coffee table in front of you. Your thumb lingers over the talk button after scrolling to the letter _E_ in your address book.

It's eleven o'clock on a Thursday night, she has a boyfriend, and it's a 'holiday.' The last thing she probably wants is to hear from you.

But after witnessing a living hell from the eyes of strangers, you want nothing more than to take her out of her own prison of lysol and disinfecting wipes, fold her into your arms, and hope that you can help her feel more in control of her own body. You apply pressure to the button, praying she'll answer so you can start the process of healing her in any way you can.

* * *

Your phone vibrates mercilessly from the hard wood of the end table behind your head. You blink, nose scrunched in confusion as to why you'd fallen asleep in the living room in the first place, and who on earth would be calling at such a time.

You spot a note above your phone, which you read quickly before answering the device.

_Hey, Baby - You fell asleep in my arms and I knew that moving you would wake you up. I'm sure you'll give me hell for letting you go to sleep without taking a shower, but I figure you'll forgive me eventually. You looked so peaceful, didn't want to disturb you. I set the alarm on your phone, hope it worked. If not, I owe you big time. - Carl_

A smile tugs at your lips when your eyes trace his name, but quickly turns into a frown as you spot who was calling your cellphone. It shouldn't have been a very difficult guess, you suppose as you glare at the name on the screen. With sleep straining your voice, you answer, "Hello?"

"Em, hey...look, I know it's eleven o'clock on a Thursday, and I'm really sorry for calling—"

You yawn and sit up, rubbing an eye and grimacing when you pull away and find mascara stained on your knuckles. "Is everything alright? Are _you_ alright?"

There are cracks in his voice like he's been crying and you're concerned. Your friendship may be mended to a point, but he hasn't opened up to you in ages. You haven't opened up to him.

"I'm...I'm okay," He sounds like he's composing himself, but that's far from being okay.

"You don't sound so good," You murmur, putting the phone on speaker for a moment, resting it on a paper towel on the bathroom sink so you can wash your hands and face. "Will, you must have a reason for calling me."

He's suddenly on the defensive, "Do I have to have a reason for calling you? Isn't it okay to want to talk to my friend?"

"Yeah, but," You turn the water on and load up your hands with antibacterial soap, washing them, careful to scrub beneath your nails and in between your fingers. You spend no less than sixty seconds doing so. "You haven't called _just to talk_ to me in forever. What's this about?"

There's a crinkling noise from the receiver and a long pause before a heavy sigh. "What are you doing right now, Em?"

"Washing my hands," You reply, an eyebrow raised in the mirror as you give yourself a once over, feeling suddenly desperate to change out of your day clothes.

"I-I..." As he searches for words, you dry your pristine hands methodically on a lavender-hued hand towel, tossing it into a small hamper when you're done. "I just want...I'm worried about you, Emma."

Pressing your lips together, you pull your hair back into a clip, running the water once again before reaching for makeup remover. "You're worried about _me_? I'm worried about you, calling this late."

"I'm fine, Em," He exhales and it almost sounds like a laugh as he fails to convince her that he's doing well. "Will you promise that you won't get upset when I tell you what I'm about to?"

"You're freaking me out, Will," You say loudly into a clean washcloth. "Just tell me? This is a little ridiculous."

"Promise me first."

You roll your eyes and splash water over face, now free of powders and liners. "I promise I won't get mad, Will."

"Okay, well...I was watching this show, tonight. I don't even know what channel it was on, but um..."

"Where are you going with this?" You're realizing how exhausted you are and want him to hurry up with his point so you can go to bed.

"It was on people who have OCD."

You pause drying your face on a fresh towel, letting it fall to the countertop and you stare at the phone. "Will," you breathe, nervous at what he may have seen and what he now thought of you.

"Emma, it scared me. A lot."

"It's a scary thing, Will," You mutter, swallowing hard and trying not to cry. "It's really scary."

"I-I never realized...what life is like for you."

"Not many people do." You clench your hands into fists, balling them up near your collar bones. "Not many people...see, what I see. Think the way I do. I know, I know it's completely irrational, m-most of my thoughts...but there's nothing I can do to stop them."

"God," You can practically see his hand sweeping over his face in the upset manner he usually does. "Emma, I just want to hug you."

You cry into a laugh, moving your fists and crossing your arms, resting your palms over your elbows. "I'll hug me for you."

He laughs a little as well, sighing again. "I want to help you. I don't want your life to have to be so scary."

Clearing your throat, you twist your fingers over the buttons on your blouse, feeling self-conscious undressing while on the phone with the man you spent three years chasing. "That's very sweet of you," You announce, shrugging out of the crisp, white cotton. "But there's not much you can do."

"But on the show, they said there's—"

"Will," You say sharply, warning him not to continue. "I don't want to hear about the show."

"But—"

"I mean it," You huff, suddenly angry at him for suggesting what he was about to. You don't want behavioral therapy. You don't want pills. You don't want psychoanalysis. For twenty-three years, you've been comfortable drowning yourself in antibacterials and keeping your distance from anything remotely smelly, dingy, dirty or germ-ridden. You know it's not an ideal lifestyle, but you've got your condition managed and that's good enough for you.

"I can't just sit here, knowing there's something I could do for you. Don't you see that, Emma? Don't you want to be happy?"

"Who said I'm not happy? For the record, I've got a great job, a nice place to live and a boyfriend," You emphasize the reference to Carl, knowing it would have him squirming, "And I thought I had an understanding best friend."

The line is silent as you peel away a turquoise pencil skirt and shrug on a robe before washing your hands again, using yet another hand towel, before taking your cellphone by the edge of the plastic and tossing it on the center of your bed as you move around your bedroom, locating pajamas.

"You do have an understanding best friend. He understands now, more than ever. Maybe that's not a good thing, if what you want is to keep living your life the way you do. Because now, you have a best friend who's determined to change your life for the better."

You say nothing as you pull a worn nightgown over your head, smoothing it out before pulling the comforter down and setting the alarm clock. "I appreciate you wanting to help me, Will. But I don't need it. I don't."

* * *

You cringe as she hangs up after bidding you goodnight. That didn't go anything like you predicted it would in the split-second decision you made to call her a half hour earlier. You'd thought she'd be flattered that you wanted to help her. You hoped she'd take you up on the offer, letting you into her scary world.

With a glance at the time, you retreat to your own bathroom, performing your own nightly ritual of brushing your teeth and tossing your dirty clothes into a heap on the bathroom floor.

Crawling into your bed alone, you reach for the frame on your night stand and grip the only picture you have with her.

It was your second date, before things took a slightly disastrous turn when she confessed she wasn't completely comfortable making out in a space you'd shared with your ex-wife.

The power had gone out and you lit candles all around the room, casting a romantic mood without being overdone. A bowl of popcorn was abandoned as rain beat outside the window and you brought your Macbook into the room for a little music while you talked.

Before any kissing or talk of fake babies occurred, you opened up the photo-taking software and curled an arm around her pink sweater-clad arm, drawing her close and smiling into the webcam. She was beaming, looking radiant in the glow of the candles.

The expression on her face was pure happiness. She wasn't concerned with the germs lingering on your hand or forehead as both were pressed on her bare skin. She wasn't occupied with thoughts of mites crawling in the plush of the sofa. She wasn't bothered with the idea of condensation pooling around your glass on the coffee table.

She was content, in that moment, to simply be, to not let her mental illness overtake having a great time, enjoying life. You want that for her. Whether she is with you, or the dentist, or anybody, for that matter. You want her to be truly happy, to lock her demons away and live.

But it would seem she's closed that chapter of her life — the chapter on you. You aren't sure if there's a way you can reopen it, consider her to let you rewrite the ending. You want to fight her monsters away, be they air pathogens or the looming thought of them in her mind. You want to be her hero; even if she doesn't want to be rescued.

* * *

You cry into your pillow shortly after hanging up with him. You hate that he's making you think about changing your lifestyle. You hate that he wants you to try and sweep your fears under a rug. You hate the thought of sweeping anything under a rug.

You cry harder.

He wants to get in your head, but you're sure he's not fully aware of just how terrifying of a place it is to be. The documentary, whatever it was he may have witnessed, was only a small taste of what your thought process is like. If you were to truly let him, or your boyfriend, or anyone in, for that matter, you're sure they'd condemn you to a life in an 've found ways to cover up your impulses, or at least make them barely noticeable. You've been managing this condition for over two decades. No one has ever questioned your choices to live the way you do. No one has ever tried to get into the deeper, darker places of your phobia. No one had ever tried or ever wanted to. He may think he wants to, but you're sure of one thing...

If he could read your mind, he'd give up in an instant.

* * *

Some angst to start the season off with.

Not sure if this is going to be continued yet. I quite like the way it ends, but I have ideas for if I were to keep it going. That'll be up to you. Do you like the unhappy ending (we have to be okay with angst every now and then!) or would you like a Will-helps-Emma-overcome-her-OCD-type multichapter fic?

Thank you for reading!


End file.
